My Bucharest

A streak of orange light filters into the room through the heavy burgundy velvet curtains. I watch it through half-closed eyes. The balcony door is tall and narrow, like a giraffe. My grandmother put me to bed, but I’m afraid to close my eyes. From a painting above the bed, an old woman stares at me as she cooks something in a cauldron. The cauldron looks big enough to fit me inside. On summer days, Grandma always keeps the curtains drawn to keep the heat out. The curtains act as a buffer against the restless world outside. Inside the house, Grandma reigns over objects, smells, tastes, and sounds. 

In the evening, when the cool air sets in, Grandma pulls the curtains aside with a theatrical gesture. It’s time to go for a walk with Bobi, the tri-colored cocker spaniel, who’s like an older brother to me—just a few years older than my human brothers. Before we leave, we’ll each get a piece of candy. We both know that. Three seconds after Grandma lifts the lid of the cherry-red ca